


Fragmented Truth

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is what you believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragmented Truth

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on LJ on January 9th, 2008.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.

Sometimes he wonders what is true.

Is it this:

> "... best friend, aren't you, Metze?" and he looks up into Basti's face, flushed with happiness and something he's almost afraid to ascribe the quality of 'love' to, the lithe body bent over his with the legs tangled, and there's heat and sex and sweat between them, the scents of sin and lust and passion that he's grown intimately familiar with.
> 
> "Yes," he says, _yes_ to everything, to Basti, to himself, to this - whatever it is - and this is when Basti smiles, so broadly that the corners of his mouth must ache. And this is also when he lifts himself up, covering mere inches to gently lift this smile from his best friend's lips.

Or is it this:

> She was beautiful, resplendent even. Her swelling stomach is something he only paid fleeting glances to, quick to return to her mouth curving up and her eyes crinkling. As she was, as she always had been, and yet there were small but significant changes in the way she smiled (like they said that La Joconde must've been pregnant, considering the ethereal quality of her smile), the way her eyes lit up warmly.
> 
> He didn't want to hate her for it.
> 
> He even laughed when Basti made self-deprecating jokes about his impending fatherhood, teased him about fatherly duties and promised to take embarrassing pictures of Basti changing his baby's nappies; in short, he was the ultimate best friend, always ready with a grin and a wink.
> 
> The best friend. Someone who was relegated to the minor cast of characters; someone who could have a major impact on the main cast, but was nevertheless cast away and disregarded as soon as the happy couple eloped into the sunset.
> 
> In his case, it had taken longer than that, so he had taken on yet another quality: the hanger-on.
> 
> But in Spain, he's none of this anymore.

Or is it even this:

> Grass blades stick to his skin, wetcoldslippery, and Metze brushes at them, ineffectly, knowing that only a good shower will wash all it away, the thin dark green stripes rushing into the drain, greedily swallowed and drained by soapy foam and clear water.
> 
> "Good game, eh?" and he nods, smiles at Basti who is already pulling the sweaty jersey over his head with jerky movements, the adrenaline not yet settled. It had been a dirty, honest match out there, the referee surprisingly unbiased, and they had won by a clear margin.
> 
> "Hope our lucky streak will hold on until the end of the season, though."
> 
> His jersey joins Basti'si on the heap in the middle of the room, the 21 covering the 5 halfway, the crinkled 'L' of Kehl still visible. The shoelaces take more work as he fastiduously ties them into careful knots before every match, but in the end they're also off along with the socks.
> 
> "Yeah. Wanna bet?" With a last grin, Basti departs towards the showers, a towel slung around his shoulders and his narrow arse with its firm swell catching Metze's eye, as always, and reminding him of their last time... But he quickly cuts off this line of thought lest his groin would betray him and follows his best friend into the showers.
> 
> "Betting's so plebeian, Kehli." Metze says as he slips under the adjacent shower that Dede just freed up, watching Basti's eyes roll in answer to his smirk before he closes his eyes in bliss under the hot drums, his tendons slackening under the onslaught of the water.
> 
> When they're back in the locker room after some teasing about the amount of shampoo Metze used even though "you don't even have Torsten's hair, frickin' hell," Basti leans over to him.
> 
> "Bet I can make you come in less than five minutes," he whispers.
> 
> "Deal."

Or maybe it's just this:

> The sand's surface is warm to their bare feet, even though it's January. But if you dig deeper with your toes, you quickly encounter unpleasant damp coolness, so they carefully place their feet on top of the sand, careful to disturb as few grains as possible.
> 
> "Africa's just over there," Basti says, squinting. He's wearing casual clothes, a faded grey sweater and bleached jeans, his sneakers between them. In the slightly cloudied sunlight, Metze can make out the faint lines on his face that will deepen in the years to come.
> 
> Basti turns towards him, and Metze knows that grey isn't a warm color, but Basti's eyes _are_. "One day, I'm gonna stand on the other side and look towards Marbella."
> 
> "You'll have to tell me if it looks as boring from there as it does from here," Metze says with a grin. "But at least you won't be alone - there'll be loads of refugees along with you there, waiting for their next impromptu ferry to Spain."
> 
> The impact of Basti's fist on his shoulder doesn't hurt and Metze just laughs, and then he's spluttering because a handful of sand landed on his leather jacket and _in_ his mouth.
> 
> The few lone people that took the long way along the beach must've wondered about the couple of grown men behaving like little boys, wrestling with each other and laughing, the sound ringing clear into the empty white sky.
> 
> "You asshole," Basti complains as he's picking at his sweater, sand grains gleaming whitishly in the knitting. "I'll never get everything out of it."
> 
> "At least you'll never forget who's the true champion this way," Metze grins, brushing through his hair that has taken on a pepper-salt hue now.
> 
> Basti rolls his eyes, but his mouth curves up. "Easier than tattooing 'Metze is my king' on my ass, at least." He reaches up and his nimble fingers catch the last remaining sand grains in Metze's hair, combing through the strands gently, lightly massaging.

Maybe truth is to be found everywhere and nowhere. Maybe truth isn't so much as what he remembers but what he _believes_.

After all, he has believed enough for the two of them so far.


End file.
